Pee Wee Camp
by ICanStopAnytime
Summary: Jason Street is in 4th grade. He's just moved to Dillon, Texas, and he's the laughing stock of his new elementary school because he doesn't know how to play football. Thank God there's a junior high football coach whose offering a summer Pee Wee football camp.
1. The Flyer

Jason Street pedaled home from school quickly, the special flyer tucked safely in his 4th grade folder. They'd only moved to Dillon a month ago, during the last quarter of the school year, but he knew his way home well. He'd even found two short-cuts from the elementary school to the house.

It seemed to him that 90% of the people who lived in Dillon had been born in Dillon. Occasionally, someone might venture out to college and never come back, or, desperate for a job, they might move to one of the big cities, but it was rare to do what Jason's parents had done – move _into_ Dillon for a job. But Mitchell Street had always wanted to own his own store, and there'd been a corner store for sale, inventory and all, in Dillon. The price was right. So up they'd moved.

Jason's dad worked Friday through Wednesday at the store, and Thursday was his one day off, which meant he'd be home when Jason stumbled through the door. Jason didn't stop his bike so much as jump off it while it was still moving, leaving it sprawling on the lawn. He ran through the unlocked front door and into the kitchen, where his mom and dad sat sipping wine and talking to one another. They always had a "kitchen table date" on Thursday afternoons. Jason's mom stayed at home, so they were both home all day while he was in school on Thursdays. He wondered what they did with the morning hours.

He yanked open the zipper of his backpack and slapped the flyer down on the table. "I want to go to this camp!" he announced. He'd seen the flyers sitting in a stack on a hall table in his elementary school, where tutors and piano teachers and coaches were allowed to leave information.

Joanne Street looked down at the sheet, which said:

 **BEGINNERS' FOOTBALL CAMP** **  
** **Rising 2nd– 5th** **graders**  
 _ **June 7 – 11, 8:30 AM – 11:30 AM**_ _ **  
**_ _Hastings Park ~ 345 Flower Hill Drive ~ Yellow Field, TX ~ Field B_

 _Yellow Field Junior High football coach will teach you the fundamental skills necessary for football._ _  
_ _Learn offense, defense, and special teams._ _  
_ _No experience necessary._

 _What to Bring:_ _  
_ _Water bottle_ _  
_ _Cleats  
A positive attitude_

 _ **$55 per camper**_ _ **  
**_ _ **Make checks payable to Eric Taylor.**_

And then at the bottom there was a registration form and mailing information.

"This is all the way in Yellow Field, Jason," his mother said. "That's a thirty minute drive each way. Where did you even find this?"

"They were on the information desk at school."

His father peered at the sheet. "You play soccer, Jason, not football."

Jason _had_ played soccer, when they lived in the San Antonio suburbs, before they moved. It was _normal_ to play soccer there. Jason had started playing when he was five, and he loved the game.

"But everyone here just plays football, Dad. And I barely even know the rules!"

Mitchell Street was a busy man, so he didn't really follow professional football closely. That had been odd enough in San Antonio, but it was downright bizarre in Dillon.

"Can't you find a summer camp that's a little closer?" Joanne Street asked.

"Mom, all the camps in Dillon are for kids who have been playing since they could walk. They'll laugh at me! This says NO experience necessary! I HAVE to learn how to play football. They make fun of me at recess! I HAVE to go!"

"I don't know anything about the man teaching this camp," Mitchell Street said. "How do I know he's not some pervert trying to round up kids in one place? He drives all the way to Dillon to put flyers in the elementary schools?"

"It says he's a junior high football coach," Jason's mom said softly. "And if he works in an actual school, I'm sure he's been background checked. You know, I could probably find the time to take Jason. If it's that important to him." She put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "I didn't realize you were getting picked on, sweetie."

"So I can go?" Jason asked. "You'll mail in the check?"

"$55 a camper?" Mitchell Street asked. "If he gets 30 kids to sign up, that's $1,650 dollars." Jason was always impressed by the way his dad could do math in his head, just like that. "For 15 hours of work. That's $110 an hour. Not a bad little racket for Coach Eric Taylor."

"Well he probably has an assistant or two helping him he has to pay," Joanne said. "And herding kids that age isn't easy. And that means we're paying less than $4 an hour for Jason. That's less than we'd pay a babysitter."

"We don't need to pay a babysitter," Mitchell said. "You're home with Jason, darling."

"I don't need a babysitter anyway," Jason insisted. "I'm ten now. Tim Riggins has his own key. There's no one at his house until 7!"

"Who's Tim Riggins?" Joanne asked.

Tim Riggins was actually the ring leader of the kids who had made fun of him at recess when he'd tried to play football with the boys. He'd ended up dribbling a soccer ball around the square shaped, wooden edge of the playground by himself instead, over and over. The school had two soccer balls it put out for recess. It had fourteen footballs. No one touched the second soccer ball, but all the footballs were snatched up before the last kid had even made it out the school door.

"Just a kid at my school."

"Does this mean you're quitting soccer, Jason?" Mitchell Street asked. "After all the money I spent signing you up for that, and the equipment I bought, and the gas and hotels for when you were on that travel team last fall?"

"No one cares about soccer here, Dad," Jason said.

Jason's father sighed. "You can go to the camp if you really want."


	2. Day 1 of Camp: Meeting Coach Taylor

Joanne Street worried for her son. She hadn't wanted to move to Dillon anymore than Jason had, but Mitchell had his dreams, and the store was a good opportunity. She'd settled into Dillon easily enough. She was the quiet, get-along-with-others type, and she'd joined a book club and the PTA and would sympathetically listen to the women complain about their husbands, even though she had few complaints of her own to share. She was a little bored, but she was comfortable.

Jason, however, seemed to be having a hard time adjusting. He was friendly and athletic, but a bit sensitive. Sometimes Joanne feared these rough-edged Dillon boys would eat him alive, especially that Tim Riggins boy, whom she'd seen skidding to a stop on his bike in front of the house one Saturday afternoon, leaving a long black mark on the sidewalk, and shouting, "Hey, Street, eat my feet," before laughing and pedaling on.

When she volunteered at Jason's school to be a recess aide, she noticed her son hovering around the field where the boys played football, being picked last for teams, and getting laughed at for misunderstanding the position they had assigned him, being pulled out of the game, and eventually trailing off. He grabbed a lonely soccer ball from where it rolled lightly on the blacktop and began bouncing it with his head. A little brown haired girl came up to him and offered to kick the ball back and forth, but, shortly thereafter a blonde pranced by, smirking, and taunting, "Lyla and Jason sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G," which made the brown-haired girl say, "I've got to go" and skip off to join some friends who were sitting atop the monkey bars and chatting.

The school year wrapped up the first week of June, and the first day of the football camp soon rolled around. Joanne drove her son to Yellow Field, and it was 8:35 AM before she found Field B. Jason was flipping out in the backseat, saying, "I'm going to be late! I'm going to be late!" She wished he would calm down and let her concentrate on the signs.

There was no parking lot to speak of, so she parked in a grass strip next to several other cars and walked her eager, rising-5th grade son to the open, grassy field where kids were running around willy nilly, throwing footballs and shouting "Hutt, hutt, hike!" It looked a bit disorganized. The field was just an ordinary grass field, though it had been marked with white paint. Two kids appeared to be wrestling each other to the ground and then rolling around and punching each other, whether for play or for real, Joanne did not know. No one was stopping it.

There were two young men in baseball caps, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three, talking to each other and laughing, and generally ignoring the chaos, but there were no parents lingering to make sure everything went smoothly. Cars were peeling away from the park one by one.

She was beginning to approach the young coaches when there arose a deep voice from behind her. "Coach Thomas! Coach Wylie! Socialize on your own time! Why aren't you putting them in groups?"

The speaker, who looked to be about thirty, strolled past her and toward the two coaches. He was wearing khaki shorts, a burnt orange t-shirt, and a black cap. A pair of sunglasses hung loosely from a band around his neck, and he held a travel coffee mug in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

"Hey," one of the coaches hollered back to him. "You're the one who's late!"

Joanne told Jason to follow her and trailed after the coach with the deep voice. She didn't know if she had to sign Jason in or what. She couldn't help but notice that the man's ass was invitingly firm, or that his calves were muscular, or that he was tall, or that the black hair that fell out from beneath his cap was especially thick.

"Tami kept me up all night screaming about charlie horses," the man said as he walked toward his fellow coaches. "It was like that when she was pregnant with Julie too, but not until the third trimester." He came to a stop in front of the two younger coaches. "At least the nausea has stopped and I'm finally getting laid again. Gotta love that second trimester hormone kick."

One of the coaches shook his head with wide eyes and made a zip-it gesture with his fingers to his lips and nodded over the coach's shoulder at Joanne.

The man with the fine ass turned and tucked his clipboard under his armpit. He squinted against the morning sun and put on his sunglasses to shield his eyes. Joanne wished he hadn't. Those were some of the loveliest eyes she'd ever seen, and she was trying to figure out just what color they were.

"Good mornin', ma'am," he drawled. "I'm Coach Eric Taylor." He looked across the field. "Wylie, go stop those two kids before they kill each other."

Coach Wylie jogged onto the field.

Coach Taylor nodded to Jason. "Hello, son. Who we got here?"

"I'm Jason. Jason Street."

The other assistant coach flipped a few pages on his clipboard and checked something off. "They paid," he said. "And he's the last one."

"A'right," Coach Taylor told the assistant coach. "Take the roster and go on out there and divide them into groups approximately by size, but no more than two year's age difference in any group."

The assistant coach nodded and jogged out onto the field.

Coach Taylor turned to Joanne's son. "Jason, put your water bottle over on the table there. Your name on it?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, sir." Coach Taylor corrected him.

"Yes, sir."

"Put down your bottle, get on the field, and warm up with some alternating RDLs."

"Yes, sir," Jason said, and then quietly, more hesitantly, "What's an alternating RDL?"

"If you don't know that, just stretch out your hamstrings and get ready to do some high knees. We're going to start with some high knees and then we'll do some 40-yard build ups."

Joanne felt horrible for her son, whose eyes had just widened like a deer in the headlights. "The flyer said this was a beginning camp," she said. "No experience necessary. He's never played football."

"Never played on a competitive Pee Wee team, you mean?" Coach Taylor asked. "Don't worry. He won't be the only one."

"Never played," Joanne clarified. "At all. He doesn't even know the rules."

"Mom!" Jason said, clearly embarrassed.

"Don't you worry about a thing, ma'am," Coach Taylor said. "Your son's in good hands. Go on, son. Get on the field." Jason put his water bottle down on the table before running off to the field.

"This _is_ a beginning camp, isn't it?" Joanne asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Coach Taylor answered, "but you and I might have different definitions of _beginning_. Rest assured, though, I'll bring him up to speed. One thing though, ma'am. Your son has on soccer cleats. Not football cleats."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes. There's a difference, ma'am. The football cleats will give him more ankle support, and there's a toe cleat, which his soccer shoes don't have. They'll be a'ight for today, but if you could get him a pair of football cleats, that'd be good. Does he have a mouth guard?"

"The flyer didn't say anything about a mouth guard," she answered nervously. "You aren't doing any tackling at this camp, are you? I thought it was just about learning some basics, working on positions."

"No, we aren't tackling at this camp, but sometimes there's an accidental collision, or the ball hits a kid in the face. And if he does sign up for a Pee Wee team in the fall...he'll need all the gear. And there will be tackling. Unless you sign him up for flag."

"You didn't list a mouth guard on the flyer," Joanne said, a little peeved, because she was afraid that was one more way for Jason not to fit in - he didn't have the right equipment.

"Well I apologize for that omission, ma'am, I should have put that on a flyer. It'll be a'ight for today. But if you could get him a mouth guard by tomorrow - they're only a few dollars - that would be good."

"Is it safe? To play without one though?"

"We aren't skirmishing today. It'll be fine, ma'am."

She looked around the field. It seemed a bit hobbled together. Her husband was right. They didn't really know this man, and yet they were entrusting their son to him. "Why aren't you having this camp at the junior high football field where you coach?" she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"That area's under construction until August, ma'am. We're making do with what we have."

She glanced toward the table where there were two large buckets full of ice and two enormous watercoolers in addition to all of the kids' individual bottles. "It's supposed to go up to 95 today," she said.

"We'll keep 'em cool, ma'am." It reassured her, the courteous way he called her ma'am, even though she couldn't be more than five years older than him. "We take a break to play some water games part way through the morning. I've got several five gallon jugs in my pick-up."

Joanne glanced back to the side of the field, where a black pick-up, dented on one side, was parked.

"Listen," Coach Taylor continued, "since your son is a little…uh….new to the sport, maybe instead of picking him up at 11:30 today, you could give me an extra half hour with him, one on one? Come back at noon."

Joanne glanced at the field, where Coach Wylie was still working on pulling the two wrestling boys a part. "Uh…" Maybe her husband was right. Maybe this hadn't been the best idea. "I think maybe I'll just stay and watch."

"Rest assured, ma'am," Coach Taylor said, "We've got everything under control. There's a nice local coffee shop about three miles west down this road here," he said, pointing to the road beyond the access road. "It's a nice place to relax and read, if you brought a book."

"I don't mind waiting here," she said.

Coach Taylor shifted his cap up and down on his head. She noticed it had the yellow letters Y and F superimposed over each other, and, flying above that, a wasp. His junior high team, she supposed, must be the Yellow Field Yellow Jackets. Then he removed his sunglasses and let them fall across his chest on the band. He had a broad chest, and the tee-shirt, which said "Texas Longhorns" fit tightly over it. He stepped forward and bent down a little, as if speaking to her in confidence. "Ma'am," he said softly, "may I be frank with you?"

This close, his eyes were truly stunning, and he smelled of soap and mint and manliness. She thought, _You can be anything with me you want._

He didn't wait for her to answer. "It's going to embarrass your son if you stay. And if he's embarrassed…" Coach Taylor swayed his head back and forth. "He won't be able to concentrate and learn."

"Do you have much experience with elementary school children?" The man coached junior _high_ after all. What if he tried to treat Jason like a 13 year old instead of the barely 10 year old he was?

"I coached Pee Wee for six years, starting my junior year of college," he said.

"In college? You weren't too busy playing," she glanced at his shirt, "for the Longhorns?"

"I broke my arm in two places the summer before my junior year and couldn't play anymore. Your son looks like he's going into 5th grade next fall. Is he?"

"Yes."

"I taught 4th grade for two years and 5th grade for three years before I became a junior high teacher and coach."

"You taught them P.E.?"

"No, I was a classroom teacher. I teach P.E. now, though. 7th and 8th grade. I have a dual degree in elementary education and physical education. Coach Wylie and Coach Thomas have both coached Pee Wee teams for four years now."

"They don't look old enough to have done that," Joanne said.

"You can coach when you're a teenager."

She looked at the field again. Jason was being put into a group of boys. He looked a little happy and a little nervous.

"He gets bullied at school," she confessed, not sure why she was sharing her fear with this stranger, "because he doesn't know football well."

"Well, ma'am, that's a shame. That won't happen on my field. But rest assured, by the end of this week, your son _will_ know football."

He really wanted her to rest assured, didn't he? But she felt like she could rest assured, when he kept saying _rest assured_ , in that deep, soothing, confidential voice, with those warm hazel eyes ….

"The coffee shop is three miles that way?" she asked, pointing down the road.

Coach Taylor smiled. His face had been handsome when it was serious, but it was beautiful now. "Yes, ma'am. You enjoy your break now."

Whoever Tami Taylor was, Joanne thought as she headed for her car, she was a lucky woman. Who needed second trimester hormones when you had _that_ in your bed at night?


	3. Day 1: Extra Help

Jason stood nervously in the group of rising 4th graders Coach Thomas had assigned him to, towering a head above the rest of the kids, and he hadn't even hit puberty yet. Was he really the only rising 5th grader here? The flyer had said through rising 5th graders, hadn't it? Was that just too late to start? Did he ever have a chance of learning football and fitting in in Dillon?

He saw Coach Taylor prowling his way toward his group, looking up and down the field through his dark sunglasses. The man was a giant, Jason thought. He seemed somehow kind and scary all at once. Jason felt like this man was his only ally here, but, at the same time, someone who could tear him down in an instant if he wanted. He hoped the coach didn't yell at him too much when he messed up, because he would mess up. A lot.

"I've got them in three groups," Coach Thomas told Coach Taylor when he approached.

"I want this one," Coach Taylor said, "the one with the oldest kids. You're going to work with the youngest group."

"Why do I always get the little ones?" Coach Thomas complained. "You gave me that group last year."

Coach Taylor looked at the other coach in an expressionless sort of way, but Jason guessed the expression meant something to Coach Thomas, because he said, "Yes, sir. Thank you for the opportunity, sir." Coach Thomas sounded a little sarcastic to Jason, and Coach Taylor seemed peeved, but he just stared at the other coach.

It was weird to see someone staring _through_ sun glasses, but Jason felt like he could. Coach Taylor just had a sense about him - you could _feel_ his annoyance. It sort of surrounded him like the neon light shields that cloaked the characters in Jason's favorite video game.

"So," Coach Thomas asked, smiling a little, like he found Coach Taylor's annoyance funny, "Did you finally get rid of that mother?"

What mother? Jason wondered, pretending not to listen. Were they talking about _his_ mother?

Coach Taylor's annoyance shield flexed a little. It grew weaker and then stronger again. "Yeah," he said, "But I swear to God, if I have to deal with one more damn helicopter parent…."

Coach Thomas laughed. "Helicopter, huh? That's a good one. Always hovering around. You should coin that term."

"I think it's been coined."

Coach Thomas shrugged and went over to the little kids.

Coach Taylor looked over the group of ten boys, in which Jason stood, nervous and excited. "Gentlemen," he announced, "We're going to begin with some warm-ups. I'm going to tell you what to do. You're going to do it. You're not going to whine about it. If you make a mistake, that's okay, you're learning. I'll correct you. But you're not going to whine when I correct you. You're not going to _claim_ you were doing it right when you were in fact _not_ doing it right."

Kids did do that sometimes, Jason noticed. In soccer, in school, in all sorts of things, they'd pretend they weren't doing the wrong thing the teachers or coaches said they were doing. But Jason wanted to do things right. He didn't want to keep doing things wrong. He didn't understand _pretending_ you were right instead of listening so you could learn how to _be_ right.

"You're going to accept correction," Coach Taylor continued. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they all shouted, except Jason, who muttered "yes, sir" as soon as he realized he'd missed the chorus.

 **[*]**

The stopwatch/clock/thermometer thingy that hung from Coach Taylor's neck read 9:10 AM and 90 degrees. Jason could feel his shirt starting to stick to his back and was just peeling it off when Coach Taylor blew his whistle and the current drill finally, mercifully, stopped. All three groups gathered in around the tables with the water bottles and large water coolers, and the kids stood bunched together, breathing hard and dripping sweat and swilling water.

"Listen up, little gentlemen," Coach Taylor said as they caught their breaths and chugged the now warm water of their bottles before refilling them at the coolers. "It's getting hot isn't it?"

"Hell yeah!" a dark-skinned boy shouted. He was a little shorter than Jason, and maybe a year or two younger, but he was bigger, bulk wise.

"We don't swear on this field, Brian," Coach Taylor told him.

"Then why did I hear you saying damn earlier?" the boy asked.

"Because you have a defect in your hearing, son," Coach Taylor answered, but he said those words with a slight smile. Jason was learning that there was a fine line between amusement and annoyance with this man. "And if you continue to swear on my field, you'll be running laps."

"Good thing I don't have to come back to this camp next summer," the boy said. "My mama's moving us all to Dillon. She got a better job at a clinic there."

"I live in Dillon!" Jason told him excitedly. The boy looked at him like he was saying, _I didn't ask for you to speak_. Jason looked at the grass.

"Well, now that's a shame, Brian," Coach Taylor said in a sarcastic yet affectionate tone. "After our three glorious years together, all the way from Tiny Mites to Pee Wee. I sure was hoping to coach you on the Yellow Jackets one day."

"Dillon Junior High has a way better team," Brian said. "They beat you every year."

"Mhmmm...well...I've only been _head_ coach of the Yellow Jackets for one season, so I think that's about to change." He winked and turned from Brian and clapped his hands together. "Listen up! Who here wants to cool off?"

Such excited cheers of anticipation went up that Jason got the sense something spectacular was about to happen. The other two coaches disappeared to one of the pick up trucks and started dragging a huge plastic tub onto the field.

"Two teams!" Coach Taylor shouted. "A through L on my left! M through Z on my right!"

Brian went to the coach's left, and Coach Taylor said, " _Last_ names, boys! Get over there, Williams!"

Brian moved to the coach's right, as did Jason.

"A through L are skins!" Coach Taylor announced, and the boys on the left started tugging their shirts off over their heads. Jason was glad his side wasn't skins. He had a bit of a rash on his back, from his eczema. He didn't want anyone to laugh at him for it. The rash came and it went. He hadn't wanted to go to the pool the first day it was open.

The giant tub arrived. It was filled with water, including some ice, though probably much of the ice that had been there this morning had melted into the water. The coaches left to retrieve a second such tub, which they placed several yards away on the field, on the other side of a white line.

"This way boys," Coach Taylor told them. "To the arsenal!"

"Arsenal?" Jason asked Brian.

Brian grinned. "You'll see, newbie."

The boys started chanting, "Hut two three four, hut two three four" as they marched toward Coach Taylor's pick-up.

When they reached the tail of the pick-up, the coach held up a hand, and they all took a couple of steps back, Jason with them, once he realized he was standing out like a sore thumb. Thomas and Coach Wiley trotted over and lined up on either side of the tailgate.

"You do not choose your own weapons, boys," Coach Taylor told them. "You will be assigned a weapon. Coach Wylie will arm the skins. Coach Thomas will arm the shirts. As soon as you have your weapon, you may run to your tub on your side of the field and fill it. Skins have the tub to my left. Shirts to the right. Aim for your enemies on the other team. Don't refill until you're empty."

He let down the tailgate, and Jason beheld the water guns, in all their glory - all sorts of colors and sizes, some big, some small, some double barreled, some long, some short. How had Coach Taylor gathered so many guns? Did he go around to garage sales buying them on the cheap? They were beautiful, and suddenly Jason felt nostalgic for his old neighborhood in San Antonio, where he and his friends - who did not laugh at him for loving soccer - would spend summers water fighting in the cul-de-sac.

Chaos erupted, or at least Jason might have considered it chaos were he his own mother instead of a barely ten-year-old boy. To Jason, it was a heady, glorious time of laughing competition, icy cold water flying everywhere, clothes becoming soaked, squeals and hot pursuit and cooling capture.

By 9:35, the tubs were empty, and the guns were returned to the arsenal. Then the football drills began again, in even greater earnest this time.

 **[*]**

At 10 AM, Coach Taylor called snack break, and Jason was glad he did, because he felt like he was about to collapse.

Unfortunately, snack break was one more thing for Jason to worry about. "My mom didn't pack me a snack," he said, catching up to Coach Taylor and looking up at the man. He couldn't imagine, then, that he would one day see almost eye to eye with him. "It didn't say to bring a snack on the flyer."

"Don't worry, son," Coach Taylor said sliding his sunglasses off his eyes and letting them fall across his chest, "I provide the snacks."

"You do?" Jason was just a kid, but even so he realized that must cost a bit of money.

"I don't like kids bringing their own. They always end up trying to trade and then fighting over who has what snack." He crouched down a little, so he was on Jason's level, and leaned in as if whispering a secret. "And some of them bring that _healthy_ crap their parents insist they eat." Jason chortled. Coach Taylor stood straight again. "That stuff gives them no energy at all. And then others bring pure junk food that makes them feel all heavy in the stomach and slows them down. I aim for the happy medium." He winked at Jason.

Jason suddenly remembered something important. "I'm allergic to nuts," he said.

Coach Taylor sighed. "Of course you are." The way he said that made Jason feel as though maybe he shouldn't have mentioned his allergy. "Well, you're going into 5th grade. I suppose you can read labels."

Coach Taylor seemed annoyed, but Jason wasn't really sure why. Maybe it had something to do with his mom being like a helicopter? Quietly, he replied, "Yes, sir" and began walking toward the tables where the kids were getting snacks.

"Son!" Coach Taylor called, and Jason stopped and turned. "Listen up," he said. His tone seemed suddenly kinder to Jason. "I know you feel out of place at the moment, but you're gonna be a'right. It's a learning curve. You're clearly athletic. It shouldn't be hard to take that and point it in the right direction. Does your family have e-mail?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll get your address from your mama and send you a list of terminology to study, and a list of plays. Just read it over and over until it sticks."

"Yes, sir."

"And Jason?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Try to have some fun, too. Football is fun, son. You'll see. In the last thirty minutes, we just play. Just…. _play_."

 **[FNL]**

Jason did see. He had a great time out there on that field, even though he embarrassed himself twice by running the wrong play.

Coach Taylor got in there with them, smiled and ran around, yelled, "I'm clear, I'm clear! Pick me! Pick me!" until they all laughed. One of the boys threw him the ball. He caught it and ran fast at first, as they all tore after him, before he began to slow down and run in exaggerated slow motion, until they tackled him in a herd.

When the moms returned and started picking up the boys, Coach Taylor drew Jason aside. "We're going to go over a few basic things. Don't think I'm insulting you. I'm not. But this stuff has to be drilled into your mind. It has to become second nature to you."

"Yes, sir," Jason said. "I want to learn."

"Well that's more than I can say for a lot of little kids I've coached. Wanting to learn, son...that'll take you a long way."

Jason smiled, a feeling of relief and excitement coursing through his young form. The relief faded ten minutes later, when Coach Taylor yelled, "What in God's holy name are you doing, boy?"

"Getting ready to throw," Jason mumbled.

"C'mere, c'mere," Coach Taylor insisted, and Jason jogged over too him. "Like this." He took Jason's hand and positioned it on the ball. "Feel those laces?"

"Yes, sir."

"Put yourself into it. Step forward, and put yourself into it this time."

Jason didn't know what that meant, to put himself into it. But he didn't admit he didn't know what it meant. Coach Taylor backpedaled out onto the field, and shouted, "I'm open. Like a monster, Jason! Toss that sucker! Like a _monster_!"

The way Coach Taylor shouted that made Jason feel a surge of adrenaline, and he threw the ball. He didn't know if he'd put himself into it, but Coach Taylor caught it with a loud smack against his chest. "Thatta boy!" He shouted. "That's the way you do it! That's what I want see." He jogged over and high fived Jason, who could feel his own grin contorting his face.

"Do it again," Coach Taylor told him, and handed him the ball.


	4. Day 1: Rest Assured

Joanne Street came back at 11:50, and there wasn't a car in site, other than the coaches' pick-up trucks. She walked up to the field and leaned against the table that now had only two mostly empty coolers. The ice had completely melted in the buckets, and only a little bit of water remained. She leaned against the table and watched Coach Taylor work with her son while the assistant coaches rolled the tires and other equipment they'd been using toward their pick-up trucks and tossed them in the bed. For what seemed like a full ten minutes, Jason just kneeled there, listening as the coach stood and talked to him. They weren't throwing the ball or anything. This wasn't what she had in mind by one-on-one coaching. Eventually, Jason got up and took the ball Coach Taylor handed him.

"Like white on rice son, son like white on rice!" the coach shouted, and Jason giggled. Joanne had no idea what that might mean, but she smiled, because she had not heard her son laugh much since moving to Dillon. Coach Taylor ran backward, a grin on his face, and Jason shot the ball forward and straight into the coaches hands.

They worked on what Joanne thought were snaps next, though she didn't know, since she didn't much follow football. When Coach Taylor was done working with Jason, he walked over to her. He gave Jason some chore to do, probably so he could talk to her privately about him.

"Listen, Mrs. Street - "

"Joanne is fine."

"Jason's made a lot of progress today, Mrs. Street," he told her. "He runs fast, and he has a good arm. His best bet is probably as a quarterback, but every boy wants to play quarterback, and they all know the rules and plays better than he does. He needs discipline, and we'll work on that. Most of all, though, he needs knowledge, and that's something he can begin to acquire at home. I'm going to e-mail you a list of terminology he should study, if you don't mind giving me your e-mail address."

She'd been a bit distracted by those hazel eyes and the polite tone of his voice and hadn't quite heard every word. "You want my e-mail address?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes, ma'am. If you have e-mail at home."

"We do," she said, and took a sheet of paper out of her purse and wrote it down for him, trying to search the trace memory of her mind to recall _why_ he wanted her e-mail address. He folded the paper and tucked it into the pants of his khaki shorts. She tried not to glance down below his belt. She tried not to. But she did. For just a tiny second.

"I'll get that terminology e-mailed over to Jason by dinner time. He can review it this evening."

Oh, so _that's_ why he'd wanted her e-mail.

"Sign ups for Pop Warner end in two weeks. You might want to get him signed up for a team. Practices usually start the first week of September, first game in mid-September, goes through the end of November."

Joanne met his eyes. "Do you coach Pop Warner?" Maybe if Jason was on this man's team, he'd be more comfortable than starting with a new coach. Of course, that would mean a commute to Yellow Field for practices.

"I used to. Don't have much free time now that I'm head coach of the Yellow Jackets and I'm trying to do other odd jobs to provide for my family."

"Pop Warner coaches don't get paid?" she asked.

He laughed. "No. That's a volunteer position. But I do pop in to help Coach Thomas and Coach Wylie every now and then. They each head up their own teams. They've got several teams in Dillon. Jason's age and size, he could probably qualify for either Junior Pee Wee or Pee Wee. I'd recommend Junior. No need to throw him in with the big boys while he's still learning."

"Well, I'll discuss it with my husband. Is there anything I can do to help him? It's very important to him, that he master this game." She was angry her child was being ridiculed, and angry that the only way to stop it was learning a stupid game, but at the same time, she knew Jason loved playing soccer. He might love playing football just as much, if he could just get the hang of it.

"Ma'am," he said, shifting his cap up and down his forehead, until a curl of thick, dark hair fell out. "I've tended to encounter three types of parents since I started coaching kids." He put a hand on either of his hips.

Was he getting ready to give her a lecture? It sure seemed like it. She didn't like the idea of this man, who had to be a few years younger than her, giving her a lecture. On the other hand, there was something disarming about the confident way he stood before her, a little sweaty from a morning of coaching, his muscles straining against...stop it! Joanne scolded herself.

"There are those who are over-interested in the details of their kids' training, who question and second-guess me, and who hover around the field," he said.

Was he implying that _she_ had been hovering around the field? She had left when he asked, hadn't she?

"Then there are those who don't want anything at all to do with their kid's training, even to bother to reinforce skills at home. When I talk to them about their kid's progress, they tune me out."

Was he implying _she_ had tuned out? She had, a couple of times, but…the man was... _distracting_.

"And then there's the happy medium," Coach Taylor continued. "A parent who is involved, but not _too_ involved. If you want to help your son, the very best thing you can do is be that parent in the happy medium."

"I think I can manage that," Joanne said.

"Why don't you bring him early tomorrow? At 8 AM?"

"You'll work extra with him again?"

"Yes, ma'am, but morning is better than afternoon."

She could see that. The sun was sweltering. When Coach Taylor lifted his hat to run a hand through his hair, it was matted with sweat. A single bead of sweat dripped down from his forehead across the firm line of his jaw. He had a nice, masculine face.

 _Stop it_ , Joanne told herself. _You're a grown woman. A married, grown woman. Stop thinking like a silly girl._

"I can do that," she said. "Will you be here on time?"

She hadn't meant it as an insult. It had just kind of slipped out, since he had been late this morning.

His jaw set in irritation. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "Rest assured."


	5. Day 2 of Camp: Meeting Tami Taylor

At 7:58 AM on Tuesday, Joanne pulled into the grass lane next to a black pick-up, which was facing the field, with its tail folded down and a blanket spread open in the bed, covered with books and dolls and other toys. She got out of the car with Jason and looked out on the field. The table had been set up, with a big water cooler on top, and underneath it were three snack coolers. The tires and other equipment had already been laid out. She scanned the field for Coach Taylor and found him there, in the middle, on all fours.

A girl that looked to be about 6 or 7 sat on his back, holding his shirt collar like reins. He crawled about with her on top for a minute before rearing back. Her laughter could be heard across the field as she slid and slipped off, and he reached behind and caught her. He spied Joanne, and got on his haunches, said something to the kid, and then stood. The little girl came running to the pick-up, while Coach Taylor trailed after her.

The girl took a running leap into the bed of the truck, hoisting herself up with her hands. She sat cross-legged on the bed and reached for a triangular-shaped solitaire game containing pegs.

"Mornin', ma'am," Coach Taylor said as he approached. He had on khakhi shorts again today, and the same cap, but this time he wore a forest green t-shirt with the letters UNT across his muscular chest. "Jason." He held out his hand and Jason slapped it.

"Did you bring your daughter today?" Joanne asked, glancing toward the bed of his pick-up.

"Yes, ma'am. Julie, this is Mrs. Street. Say hello."

The girl waved. "Hola!" she shouted.

"Where are the water guns?" Jason asked, disappointment in his voice.

"We're doing water balloons today," Coach Taylor said. "They're already filled, and Coach Wylie will bring them in his truck."

"Awesome!" Jason exclaimed.

Coach Taylor winked. "Unitl y'all have to pick them up from the field."

Joanne looked at the girl. "Is she going to be all right in there while you coach?" Three and a half hours seemed to Joanne a long-time for a 7 year old to be hanging out in the bed of a pick-up.

"Julie won't be any trouble at all, will you, Monkey Noodle?"

"No comprendo," she said.

"Si, senor," he corrected her. He looked back at Joanne. "Her mother just needed some peace and quiet and a chance to sleep in."

"Yes," Joanne said, "I remember how draining pregnancy can be. Congratulations."

"How did you know she was pregnant?"

"Yesterday? You were to the other coaches." About getting laid and second trimester hormones, as she recalled.

Crimson crept into his cheeks. He cleared his throat. He rubbed Jason's head, messing up the hair Joanne had insisted he carefully comb this morning. "You ready to learn some football, young man?"

"Yes, sir!" Jason shouted.

"Go on and warm up then. I'll be on the field in a minute." When Jason jogged off, he said, "You can get him at 11:30 today."

Joanne returned at 11:15 and leaned against her car. She watched Coach Taylor goofing off with the boys and listened to their gales of laughter and decided the camp hadn't been a bad idea. Jason's confidence sure seemed to have buoyed. He'd been up before she was this morning, already dressed, eager for his second day at camp.

A car pulled up beside her, another parent, she imagined. A pregnant woman got out, looking sickeningly beautiful given the bulge, wearing a fashionable and flattering maternity dress and a pair of black sandals. Her long, strawberry blonde hair rippled in the light summer breeze as she slid her sunglasses over her blue eyes. "Hello," she said to Joanne. "You're one of the parents?"

"Joanne Street," she introduced herself.

"Tami Taylor." The woman strolled over to the bed of the truck and looked in, where the girl was laying barefoot on her stomach, reading a book and kicking her feet in the air. "I need to talk to your daddy, and then I'll take you on home. He's got to stay and clean up, I'm sure."

She glanced back to the field. Four boys were attempting to tackle Coach Taylor to the ground now, one wrapped around each of his legs, a third on his back, and a fourth tugging at the hand that did not hold the football. "Oh Good Lord," Tami Taylor said, looking out at the scene. "I hope he doesn't throw out his back, because he's supposed to be waiting on me for change."

Soon, the boys were all taking a knee on the field. Coach Taylor stood in the midst of them, his hands on his hips. Tami Taylor glanced at her watch. "How long do you think this pep talk is going to be?" she asked her daughter.

"Too long," the girl said.

"When daddy gets home from putting all those tires away, maybe we'll all go to the pool together."

Joanne Street couldn't help but wonder, for a brief moment, what Coach Taylor might look like in a swimsuit.

When the pep talk was done, Jason ran to his mother, grinning.

Coach Taylor soon followed. He kissed his wife quickly and put a hand over her stomach. "How'd the appointment go?" he asked.

"They said the bleeding's a little bit worrisome," his wife answered, "and they need to keep an eye on it, but the baby seems fine. They checked his heart beat and it's real strong."

"That's my boy," Coach Taylor said, and rubbed his hand in a circle over the bulge. "You meet Jason's mom?" he asked, turning his attention to her.

"You mean Joanne?" his wife asked with a light smile.

"Yes," Coach Taylor said, as though he'd not recalled the name. " _Joanne_."

"I did." She put a hand on his chest. "Sugar, I'm taking Julie with me. Try not to stay here all afternoon." She kissed him again. "I want to go to the pool."

"They're sure the baby's a'ight?" he asked.

"They're a little concerned I might go into early labor. But there's some kind of…something they can put me on." Mrs. Taylor winced. "Insurance won't cover it though."

"I could do another one of these camps," he said. "In late June, maybe."

"Eric, don't you already have all the kids who would come?"

"Well…I could put flyers up in some other towns." He glanced at Jason. "That kind of worked. I did get one kid all the way from Dillon."

"I shouldn't have quit my job," she said.

"Nah. You were too nauseous anyway. It's better this way. I'll take care of it, Tami. I'll find away. A man takes care of his family."

She kissed him again and then signaled to the girl, who followed her to a sedan.

Joanne pretended not to observe any of this. She was bent tying her son's cleats, the new football cleats she'd bought him yesterday. They'd cost almost as much as the camp, and she'd decided not to tell Mitchell. Mitchell could be so frugal, but they weren't in the least hurting for money. He _had_ taken out a loan for the store, sure, but he was making enough to pay it back on schedule and support them all. It's not as if they ever had to worry about paying for medicine, the way this couple apparently did.

She stood. Coach Taylor was glancing at her. "Ma'am, I mean no offense, but he should really be responsible for tying his own shoes at this age."

Joanne flushed. She didn't _usually_ tie Jason's shoes. He really thought she was some kind of hyper vigilant mother, didn't he? Well, she wasn't. She was just the _right_ amount of vigilant. "Should I bring him 30 minutes early tomorrow again?"

Coach Taylor nodded.

"Do you want me to pay you extra for your time?" It seemed he could use the money.

"I'll tell you how you can pay me."

For a minute, Joanne thought he was going to ask her out for a drink, before she realized how ridiculous that was. He was married. To a gorgeous, pregnant woman. She was married, to a decent husband. Why on earth had that even entered her mind? Mitchell had asked her to thier junior prom. She'd never dated any other man since. Mitchell was a good man, an affectionate enough husband, but perhaps she was...curious.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Your son has some natural ability. If he keeps working as steadily as I've seen him work these past two days...well, one day, he's going to be on the Panthers."

"The who?" Joanne asked.

"It's the Dillon High team!" Jason said, clearly embarrassed by his mother's ignorance.

"It's a very good team," Coach Taylor said. "They've won state championships. And it's a 5A school."

Joanne didn't know what 5A meant. She nodded as if she did.

"I sure would like to coach for that team one day. So, if Jason promises me that he'll put in a good word for me when he's QB on the JV team there," he winked at Jason, "I'll keep privately coaching him for free in the mornings before camp this week."

Joanne glanced at her son. Jason smiled. She looked back at Coach Taylor. "But what if you were to coach him beyond this week? Maybe every Saturday? Would you have the time for that? And, if so, would $25 a session be sufficient?" She probably shouldn't have thrown that offer out there without discussing it with Mitchell first.

Coach Taylor shifted his cap up and wiped his brow. "Well, I sure could use the work, ma'am," he said. "I tell you what. I'm coaching this other young man on Saturdays already. I've got a long drive, takes me a good part of the day. But I could do it on Sunday evenings. I could even come to Dillon if you like."

Jason looked eagerly at his mother. "Let me talk it over with my husband," she said, "and let you know tomorrow."

Coach Taylor nodded, slapped Jason lightly on the back, and headed back to the field to start packing up.


	6. Day 3 of Camp

When Joanne went to pick Jason up from camp on Wednesday, the assistant coaches were rolling up a slip and slide they had used for water games that day. The departing boys did not appear drenched, so the late morning sun must have already dried up their clothes. Coach Taylor was talking with Jason and showing him a few things, despite having worked with him for thirty minutes that morning before camp. Joanne had thought he was simply being kind when he said Jason possessed a natural talent and might one day be quarterback of the Panthers, but now she was beginning to think the man really did believe in Jason's future. He'd taken such a serious interest in mentoring the boy.

She leaned back against her car and waited. As she did so, a large African-American woman hollered to her son, who was goofing around and wrestling with another boy.

"Five minutes, ma!" the boy shouted back, and the woman sighed and leaned against the side of her car and fanned herself.

Meanwhile, Tami Taylor pulled up in her sedan, exited her car, and greeted both women. "Hello, Joanne," she said with a sweet drawl, "Hello, Corrina."

The little girl Julie exited the car and ran up on the field toward her father, showing off and doing cartwheels for him, but he just gave her a thumbs up and returned his attention to Jason.

"Eric's truck wouldn't start this morning," Tami told Corrina. "I had to drive him in and drop him off." This couple really did need money, Joanne thought, with the troubles they'd been having lately. "Eric told me y'all are moving."

"We sure are," Corrina answered. "In July. I got a job at a clinic in Dillon. It pays better."

"Well, congratulations on that," Tami Taylor said, "But I sure am going to miss having you as my nurse." She rubbed a hand over her stomach. "So is this little guy."

Corinna smiled.

"But we might be moving to Dillon ourselves," Tami continued. "Eric really wants to get on with the Panthers there. They offered him an assistant JV coaching job next season, but he'd already signed a teaching contract here, and he doesn't want to move us in the middle of a pregnancy. He's hoping to get a better offer from them in the future - maybe varsity QB coach or head JV coach."

"Well that sure would be nice if he made his way over there and got to work with Brian again someday. I wish he'd be Brian's junior high coach. I'd rest easier if I knew Brian had that kind of influence when he starts becoming a teenager because, Lordy, Tami, I don't know what I'm going to do with that boy when he's bigger than me. And Coach Taylor is a good Christian man."

Tami Taylor chuckled a little, as if she wasn't so sure about that. She then introduced Joanne to Corrina and the women chatted until Brian dislodged himself from the boy he was wrestling with and left with his mother.

"How you feeling?" Joanne asked, attempting to make polite conversation with the coach's wife when they were alone together.

"It's been a roller coaster pregnancy," she said, "but I'm doing well at the moment."

"We never could have more than the one," Joanne said. "We planned on four." Due to some medical issue, giving birth to Jason had almost killed her. Mitchell, scared half to death at having almost lost her, had begged her to have her tubes tied, right then and there, while they had her cut open already. Exhausted and frightened and assured she had a healthy boy, she'd agreed. She didn't regret it, exactly, but sometimes she wondered if they should have taken another risk.

"Oh, I don't think I could handle four," Tami Taylor said. "We're thinking maybe three. Or we might stop at two." She placed a hand on the bump. "Depends if this one is more or less difficult than Julie."

Joanne laughed.

"It'll probably just be two," Tami said. "Getting pregnant with this one was a lot harder than we expected. We started trying when Julie was three. Had it all planned out. Exactly four years apart in school so they could still play together but wouldn't be in college at the same time. Now they won't be in college at the same time, but with Julie seven years older, I doubt they'll play much together."

"The best laid plans…." Joanne said. "What sort of work did you used to do?"

"I was a guidance counselor," Tami replied. "At Yellow Field High, but last week was my last day. I'm taking off the next two years with this new baby, like I did with my Julie." She glanced at the field, where Julie was still trying to get her father's attention with cartwheels. "But now I'm thinking I should have stuck with my job. It's like we've been bleeding money ever since I quit. One thing after another. We had a leaky faucet, the A/C broke, now Eric's truck." She sighed. "But Eric's been picking up some extra work here and there. We'll be fine. He's always been a hard worker."

"I've never really worked," Joanne admitted, and felt a little small when she said it. "I got pregnant a year after we got married, and I've stayed home with Jason ever since."

Tami lowered her voice in a confidential whisper, "I got pregnant a month after we got married. And Julie was a month early. So our families assumed the only reason..." She shook her head. "Never mind that we dated for four years before we got married."

"Maybe I should do something," Joanne speculated. "Then again, I help Mitchell with the store."

"You and your husband own a store?"

Joanne liked the way she said that, you _**and** _ your husband, as if it was a joint task, and she supposed it was. She was on the phone a lot at home with suppliers, and she worked at the store sometimes when Mitchell had to be somewhere else. She did a lot of the paperwork. "Yeah," she answered. "We do."

Coach Taylor finally turned his attention from Jason, slapping the boy lightly on the back before focusing on his daughter.

Jason, grinning, ran across the field to Joanne.

 **[FNL]**

At home later that afternoon, Joanne was cleaning the window while Jason practiced throwing a ball through a tire Mitchell had tied to the front tree for him. Mitchell, despite his initial reluctance regarding the camp, was now making an effort to relate to his son's new interest. He had borrowed some old games on VHS from a neighbor and was reading up on the rules of football. He wolfed down his dinner when he got home from work at the store late in the evenings so he could toss the ball with Jason.

He was a good father, Joanne thought. It was a shame they could never have more children, but the store was Mitchell's second baby now. He was a busy man, but a good man, a decent father and husband. Joanne sometimes wondered what her life would have been like if she had not married the first boy who ever liked her, if she had dated other men, if she had gone to college, but she had to admit she was a fortunate woman. They had a good life.

Through the window, Joanne saw that Tim Riggins boy bike up and skid to a stop on the sidewalk before Jason, leaving a long black mark on the white cement. He liked to do that, that boy. He liked to mark things, blacken them, destroy them. She didn't think he had much supervision at home. He had no mother that Joanne knew of, and she'd heard rumors that his father was often seen at the bar at night, when he should be home with his boys. The kid was practically being raised by his brother, who was only in high school himself. No wonder Tim Riggins was a bully. She could feel her muscles tightening and her adrenaline pumping, like a mama bear ready to pounce, but she did not pounce. She watched.

She couldn't tell what Tim was saying to her boy, but he seemed to be mocking him, until Jason sent the football soaring perfectly through the hole in the tire. Tim dropped his bike flat on the sidewalk and sauntered over to Jason. He gestured for Joanne's son to back up and try it again. Jason repeated the feat. Tim Riggins seemed impressed. He nodded, and soon the two boys were throwing the ball back and forth to one another. Eventually, they were tussling on the lawn.

Joanne continued to clean the bay window of the living room and decided not to interfere, even though she had an urge to break them apart. That Riggins boy was bigger. She supposed it was good Jason was possibly making a friend. He was starting to fit in here in Dillon, but Tim Riggins was not exactly her idea of a good influence for her son.

She sprayed some Windex on the glass and sighed. Well, at least it wasn't as if they were teenagers, and Tim was going to be offering Jason beer.

She'd let it slide for now.


	7. Dinner at the Streets

On Thursday, Mitchell insisted on coming to camp with them. It was his one day off from the store, so Joanne was somewhat surprised he wanted to spend it commuting to Yellow Field and back. "I want to meet this man Jason is always raving about," Joanne's husband said. "This man you've agreed to pay $25 a _session_ for private coaching all summer."

"I didn't agree," Joanne insisted. "I told him I'd discuss it with you first. And the session will be a full hour long."

"$25 an hour. Not a bad little racket for Coach Eric Taylor."

"Darling, you make considerably more than $25 an hour."

"I take on a lot of business risks to do it. And you know half that income goes to pay business expenses."

"They need the money," Joanne told him. "His wife is pregnant, and she's having complications, and they need to pay for some kind of medicine…"

"Is that the sob story he gave you?" Mitchell asked.

"No! I overheard them talking. He didn't ask to coach Jason. But he's done wonders with our son in just three days. You see how excited Jason is. Why are you so prejudiced against this man? You haven't even met him!"

Mitchell crossed his arms sullenly over his chest. "Well, you're certainly quite the champion of him. You talk about him enough."

Did she? She hadn't thought so. A blush crept into her face. "I just think he's good for Jason," she said, putting a soothing hand on Mitchell's shoulder and kissing his cheek. "You want the best for Jason. You're a good father."

Joanne made it a point not to let her eyes linger even a moment on Coach Taylor when she introduced him to her husband at the edge of the field that morning. The men gripped hands firmly for an introductory shake. "How about them Cowboys?" Mitchell asked in a strained attempt to make conversation.

"How about them?" Coach Taylor asked.

"Well, uh….they're…."

" - Not even in summer training at the moment," Coach Taylor said.

"But…go Cowboys!" Mitchell made a motion with his fist, a sort of lame, uncommitted one.

"Well, hopefully they won't be quite as terrible this season anyway," Coach Taylor said. "Hey," he said, motioning to Mitchell, "I could use an extra man on the field, until my assistants get here. You want to come out with us, and Jason will show you what we've been working on?"

"Sure," Mitchell said, a little reluctantly.

Joanne watched them from where she sat on the hood of their sedan. Mitchell seemed a little uncomfortable at first, but soon he and Coach Taylor were working together with Jason, and intermittently the men appeared to be chatting with one another.

Mitchell was clearly not in his element, but not because he was unathletic. He'd just never taken a deep interest in football, despite his Texan heritage. He'd been on the gymnastic team in high school, muscular and lean and lithe in those days, Joanne thought wistfully. They'd been so young, and she'd been so infatuated with him in those days.

As men and Jason walked back toward the edge of the field twenty minutes later, Coach Taylor was saying, "Gymnastics is fantastic preparation for football. For young boys, it builds strength better than just about anything else they can do. It wouldn't be a bad idea at all to put Jason in a class in the spring and winter. "

The men shook hands again. Joanne didn't dare ask Mitchell what he thought of Coach Taylor as they drove to the coffee shop where they planned to have breakfast and talk and wait during the course of Jason's camp. So she was relieved when they sat down at a corner table with their coffee and muffins and he said, "I like him. Coach Taylor. He's a solid sort of man."

Joanne didn't know what it meant to be a solid sort of man, but she was glad Mitchell thought so. She suspected Coach Taylor was about to become a semi-regular part of their son's life, and she wanted Mitchell to like him.

"Did you know his wife went to UNT?" Mitchell asked.

She'd seen Coach Taylor wearing a UNT shirt the other day and so was not surprised, but she hadn't thought to mention it to Mitchell. He'd gone to UNT for a business degree while she worked full-time as a secretary to help put him through school. But she wasn't going to tell Mitchell she'd been staring at Coach Taylor's chest long enough to notice what his shirt said. "No," she said. "I didn't know that."

"Our paths wouldn't have crossed, though. I graduated a year before she started." He poured some cream into his coffee. Two tablespoons, not sugar. Joanne knew precisely how he took it. That hadn't changed in fifteen years. "I invited them and their daughter for dinner Saturday night, after Coach Taylor has his first session with Jason. I should be home by 6 PM that evening."

"Oh," Joanne said, a little flustered at the idea of having Coach Taylor in her dining room. "I better come up with a good menu then."

Mitchell snorted. "It doesn't have to be a _good menu_ , Joanne. I'm sure they'd be content with burgers or chili. They're bringing a green salad."

Green salad, Joanne thought. She had to come up with a good menu that would go well with green salad….

 **[Saturday]**

The week-long Pee Wee football camp drew to a close, and Coach Taylor had his first private coaching session with Jason. He brought his whole family with him for the dinner that was to follow, and while he coached Jason, Tami and Julie sat in the Street's living room.

"Mitchell will be home shortly," Joanne told them as they settled in and Julie went straight for the bowl of Chex Mix Joanne had left out on the coffee table.

"Save room for dinner," Tami Taylor warned her.

"So how do y'all like living in Dillon?" Tami asked her. "Y'all came from San Antonio? Must be a big change."

"It's been an adjustment," Joanne said. "For all of us, but I like it well enough. Mitchell loves the store. I keep busy volunteering with the PTA and the community association."

"Well, since we might move here one day, I'm wondering what the schools are like?"

"Can I go play outside?" Julie asked, clearly bored by the conversation already.

Coach Taylor and Jason were in the front yard, and Joanne didn't want the girl interfering with their session. "Sure, honey," Joanne told her. "Why not go in our backyard? There's a swing set out there."

Julie disappeared, and Joanne answered, "The schools aren't quite up to my standards, but they aren't bad, and I can't imagine they're any worse than Yellow Field's." When the words were out, she realized they must sound insulting and pretentious, and she wished she could restate. But Tami seemed un-offended.

"That's what I figured. Luckily, Julie reads a lot. She always supplements her education at home." She took a sip of the glass of sweet tea Joanne had poured her.

When the session was over and Mitchell arrived and they'd settled down to dinner, Tami Taylor directed and carried the brunt of the conversation. Coach Taylor, who had been very confident and well-spoken on the field, was rather quiet over dinner. He made some football-related small talk with Mitchell, but then concentrated on his food. It struck Joanne that he might be considerably more introverted than she had initially realized. Not shy, exactly, but not very social. Fortunately, he had his wife to be his mouthpiece. When Joanne noticed that Mitchell was charmed by her, she envied Tami her easy extroversion, her skilled sociability, and also her gorgeous hair and sweet southern smile.

Joanne had hoped Mitchell and Coach Taylor would speak more to one another, maybe forge a friendship so Mitchell would not be jealous of Coach Taylor's likely place in their son's life, but it was Mitchell and Tami who talked most to one another – about their shared alma mater, about a professors they had both had for statistics, about the traditions. Coach Taylor looked like he was growing bored. He was staring off at the hutch while sipping his beer. Julie and Jason had already been excused and had gone outside to play together. To Joanne's relief, though, Coach Taylor finally spoke, "Is that the Army of Northern Virginia at the Second Battle of Manassas?"

Joanne had no idea what he was talking about until she realized he was looking at the painting that was to the left of the hutch.

Mitchell followed his gaze. "Yes. Are you a Civil War buff?"

"Not really," Coach Taylor said, "But I did go through a Civil War phase when I was a boy."

"Don't all boys?" Mitchell asked. "I think I still have the little soldiers I painted in a box in the garage somewhere."

"Tami threw mine away," Coach Taylor told Mitchell.

"I did not," she insisted. "They got lost in the last move."

"Uh-huh," Coach Taylor said, "along with my Pee Wee trophies." He returned his attention to Mitchell. "I minored in American history."

"Me too," Mitchell said. "Majored in business, but minored in American History."

"I thought you double majored in physical education and early childhood education?" Joanne said. That seemed like a lot – two majors and a minor. " _And_ played football?"

"Gut majors," Coach Taylor answered. "Jogging and finger painting. What made you want that painting?" he asked Mitchell.

The men began to talk a bit about history, and Joanne was glad to see them connect. She invited Tami back to the living room and left the men to talk. As they walked, Tami put a hand at her side and winced.

"Are you okay?" Joanne asked her.

"Bad cramp," she said. "May I use your restroom?"

Joanne directed her to its location in the hall and returned to the living room. She was just about to settle onto the couch when she heard Tami Taylor's panicked voice, crying for her husband.


	8. Epilogue

**A/N:** Sorry if this ending seems abrupt, but I hadn't planned for this to be a long one; just a glimpse into what story might lie behind the claim in Season 1 that Coach Taylor "coached Jason all the way up from Pee Wee."

 **[*]**

A friendship can be either forged or melted in the fires of a tragedy. For the Taylors and the Streets, the friendship both began and ended that way. That night when Tami Taylor lost the baby was a blur of motion and emotion for Joanne Street. She found her usually timid self seizing the reigns when the Taylors seemed to be flung into chaos. She ordered Mitchell to drive them to the hospital, and assured Tami that Julie could stay at her house, all night if necessary.

The night was long and full of fear, of reaching out and finding comfort. Tragedy was like a cannon blast blowing through and scattering the small talk and leaving only raw honesty in its wake. In the weeks and months and years that followed, Coach Taylor would come to consider Mitchell Street to be one of his few friends, and Tami would say the same of Joanne. Coach Taylor would take Jason under his wing, and turn him into the star quarterback of the Dillon Panthers.

But then tragedy would strike again.

After the Taylors had moved on from Dillon to a new life in Philadelphia, Joanne street would often regret the way the friendship had dissolved. They had both lost children, in a way, but that first loss had drawn them together and the second had thrust them apart. Joanne and Mitchell had lost the child they had believed Jason would grow to be, and though they did not blame Coach Taylor for the injury that had crippled their son for life, though they did not take their anger out against him – an anger that churned nightly in the sea of their sense of injustice – they did take out on him their desperation. The flood of bills threatened to drown them, and in the end, they reluctantly listened to their lawyer. The school would be the one to pay, the lawyer assured them, not Coach Taylor. But in the end, their friendship would be the one to pay.

The Taylors spoke to the Streets from time to time after those papers were issued. But they were never quite friends again. Coach Taylor remained a mentor in Jason's life, giving him a coaching job, giving him advice when he became a father, meeting him from time to time over the years. But he never came to dinner at Mitchell's house again. Jason regained his life – not the life his parents or he himself had imagined – but a new life, a life well worth living. Yet that old friendship between his father and his coach remained dead.

On her 50th birthday, when everyone had cleared out of the house, and the helium balloons had begun to droop slightly from the celing, and Mitchell had gone to bed, Joanne sat alone in her living room, staring out at the bay window where a young, vibrant, and running Jason had once thrown a football with Coach Taylor, and thought of what might have been.

She glanced at the telephone resting on the living room end table and thought of calling Buddy Garrity. Why Buddy Garrity, of all people? Because she was sure he would have the Taylor's number in Philadelphia.

And tomorrow, perhaps, she would call Tami Taylor. Perhaps, she would call her and tell her how sorry she was, sorry for the things that had been lost, sorry for the fear and desperation that had caused them to be lost, and hopeful that something new and beautiful might still be found.

 **THE END**


End file.
